


Where we come from

by Spnfandom8



Category: Batman - Fandom, White Collar
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd Has Feelings, Jason Todd Has Issues, Neal Caffrey Has Issues, Neal Caffrey Needs a Hug, Past Child Neglect, Protective Neal Caffrey, Protective Siblings, Secret Identities, Survivor Guilt, anger issues, verbal abuse by parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27085888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spnfandom8/pseuds/Spnfandom8
Summary: "I was under the impression that my son was being arrested, not sitting in a conference room next to his brother, laughing." Bruce says, his voice flat as he strides into the room, startling the laughter from everyone's expressions.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	Where we come from

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy. :)

I’m seated at my desk, attempting to curb the bloodlust pumping through my veins and tamp down the itch in my hands, begging for the kind of violence I grew up on, praying that time would stop, just so I could get away with that shit consequence free.   
The truth though, is that according to me, Peter, and everyone else who knows me by the name of Neal Caffrey, I’m a non-violent felon, and I would rather take a punch than start a fight. That’s the way it has to be, that’s the character I'm playing, and though the lines between the character and me have begun to blur, it doesn’t change the facts. The facts being that i’m a non-violent felon, I’m a thief and a conman.   
Those violent urges are not to be acted upon. My nightly visits to the underground fighting ring a few blocks from my apartment are not to be revealed. It’s a risk, going there. The bigger risk would be leaving myself without an outlet for my occasional bout of uncontrollable rage. Most of the time it’s just a longing for the pain, the adrenaline, the taste of my blood in my mouth and the giddy feeling I get when I defeat an opponent. It’s comparable to the feeling I get when I pull off a heist. But seeing as I’ve been completely cut off from that high, that release and adrenaline rush, I've been leaning a lot more heavily on fighting to temper my emotions.   
I take a deep breath, pushing my murderous rage down, down, into my stomach where it’s free to boil away, turning my stomach and killing my appetite. It takes me another minute of deep breathing before I feel in control enough to pick up my phone, calling back the last number to leave a voicemail, because even knowing that it’s a bad idea to call her while I’m at work, I need to know why she’s leaving me messages, and how the bitch got my fucking number after so long.  
It rings once before she picks up, her nasally voice grating on my nerves. “What?” she says, like as if she didn’t fucking call me twenty minutes ago.   
“How did you get my number?” I bark down the line, not equipped to handle her bullshit today, not out of the blue, not without preparation.   
“You were always such a little fucking delinquent, it’s no surprise you turned out rude, just like your deadbeat father.” she says, grunting down the line, like as if it wasn’t her fucking job to teach me manners.   
“Fuck you. Maybe if you had ever thought to stop bringing abusive fucking deadbeat junkie boyfriends to the apartment. Maybe if you’d thought to get clean, or say a single nice fucking thing to me when I was a kid, I would’a grown up with some manners.” I growl down the line at her, my south Gotham accent pushing through along with my anger.   
I glance over at the desks surrounding me, making sure that no one’s listening in on me.   
“It’s your own fucking fault, I should’a aborted you when I had the chance. Waste of fucking space.” she mutters, and as her words slur, I know that she’s either drunk or high or both.   
The fact that she’s been tossing those words at me my whole life, doesn’t make them cut any shallower, doesn’t make them sting any less than the first time she said them. No matter how much I accept that my mother hates me, hates my existence, her words still cut, still leave bleeding, rotting, wounds behind in their wake.   
“Why did you call me? I haven’t heard from you in years. Why now?” I ask, my voice on the verge of cracking. Silence sounds from down the line.   
My heart starts beating faster as I see Jones and Diana walking towards me, concerned looks on their faces.   
She still hasn’t said anything, and Jones and Diana are now standing in front of my desk, I hold a finger up, letting them know that I'll only be a minute, though I now have to watch what I say.   
“I got locked up, I need bail money and your good for nothing brother won’t answer the phone.” she spits vitriol coating her words, even though she’s asking me for something.   
“Who’s phone are you calling me on?” I ask, wondering why I didn’t get the ‘a prisoner is trying to contact you’ automated message.   
“You know how it is. My lawyer snuck me one in, I got your number from your brother's phone last time he picked me up from the hospital.” she says, finally telling me how she got my number. I chuckle lowly, every ounce of menace and vitriol in my chest being poured into the sound.   
“No. And in case everything you ever did to me isn’t reason enough, look back to when I was in that same situation? Remember what you did then? So fuck you. Figure it out. Don’t be such a fucking disappointment. Guess you shouldn’t have gotten yourself in this situation if you weren’t prepared for the consequences. Get smart or get fucked.” I bite out, repeating just a few of her choice slogans for when I was in trouble. When one of her boyfriends beat the shit out of me for having sticky fingers. When I went to Juvie. When I got in trouble with some guys and instead of buzzing open the door to the apartment building, she laughed and left me out there. They broke eighteen of my bones, three ribs, and gave me a severe concussion. I was 11.   
I hang up the phone then, and without realising it, squeeze too hard and crack the screen. I take a deep breath then, steadying my expression and tucking the phone into my suit jacket before risking a look up at Jones and Diana, who are looking at me like they’ve never seen me before.   
“Who was that Neal?” Diana asks, and I smother a slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles up my throat.   
“An old friend,” I tell her.   
“That didn’t sound like a friendly conversation.” Jones says, obviously probing for more information.   
“No. That’s because she’s a piece of fucking work, and if I never see her again, it’ll be too fucking soon.” I answer, knowing that it’ll end the conversation quicker than if I try to dodge their questions.   
“Okaaay” Diana says, her eyebrows all the way up in her hairline.   
“Peter was looking for you.” she says, nodding her head over to the stairs, where Peter stands at the top, a concerned look spread across his face. I must have been too absorbed in dealing with my mother to see him signaling that he wanted to see me.   
I shoot him a grin, and the concern ebbs away from his features, not entirely leaving, but receding for now.   
“Who were you talking to Neal?” he asks as I come up the stairs, and I sigh.   
“Someone that I used to know. She’s a piece of work and someone that I never want to see again. She was calling to ask for money.” I tell him, letting a little more information loose at the sight of my best friend’s concern.   
“Anyone we would know?” he asks, and I scoff.   
“No. She's been around since I was a baby. Unfortunately for me.” I tell him, making light of a very dark situation.   
“She’s known the great Neal Caffrey since he was a baby? Now I want to meet her!” Peter teases, but instead of the usual lightness that would bring to my mood, it dips considerably. The thought of anyone I give a shit about meeting her is more than concerning, it makes me want to throw up.   
“No. You don’t.” I tell him, following him, Diana and Jones into the conference room, where they all look at me, that concern coming back into their tones.   
“Who was it really, Neal?” Peter asks then, understanding that there’s more to the story than I'm letting on.   
“Don’t we have work to do?” I ask, trying to steer them away from the conversation at hand.   
“Not until our suspect arrives. Which will be at least another ten minutes.” Peter says, and I sigh, knowing that that time will be spent interrogating me.   
“You really want to know who that was?” I ask, asking myself how much it really changes if they know that my mother called me. I was on a prepaid, as was she, so it’s not like they’ll be able to find anything on her, least of all her name. The only information they’ll have is what I choose to tell them.   
“Yes, Neal, I really want to know who put that look on your face.” Peter answers, a hint of protectiveness in his voice.   
“What look?” I ask, wondering what it is that he saw in my face while I was talking to my mother.   
“Like you wanted to simultaneously kill someone and cry.” he answers bluntly, and I duck my head, unable to prevent the flush of embarrassment from heating my cheeks. Crying is something I haven’t truly done in many years. Fake tears? Yeah, all the time. Real tears, not in ten years. At least. But talking to my mother will most definitely throw the urge in my face, no matter how much I hate her, she always finds a way to cut me open, just for the simple enjoyment of watching me bleed.   
“It was my mother.” I tell him, ignoring the slight ringing in my ears within the resounding silence.   
“You were talking to your mother like that?” Diana asks, a note of surprise in her voice.  
“I hate my mother. For good reason. Although I guess you could say she hates me for good reason as well.” I answer, my eyebrows furrowing as I think about how deep her hatred of me runs.   
“Because you’re a criminal?” Jones asks, shock coloring his tone.   
“Ha! No. Not remotely. I don’t have enough strands of hair on my head to count the amount of times she broke the law before I turned ten. She hates me for something else entirely.” I tell them, clasping my hands together behind my back to try and stop them from shaking. Too many memories are being brought up today, too much traumatic shit, and I’m done. I need a stiff drink, a pack of cigarettes, and a fight.   
“Our suspect is being brought up. This isn’t over though, Neal. We will be talking about this later.” Peter says, and I nod, following them back down the stairs and over to the elevators, where we are apparently waiting for our suspect.   
A few moments later, and the doors open, a very familiar figure pulling away from the agent holding his shoulder to escape the elevator.   
“Woah, woah. Stop him!” the agent inside the elevator says, but instead of doing as he asks, I slip in between the agent and the suspect, my back to the suspect as I slide into a defensive position.   
The agent moves towards me, embarrassment and anger mixing into an ugly concoction on his face. I can feel the heat of my baby brother behind me, standing close enough to show that he isn’t running, and to let me know his position behind me.   
“Don’t” I growl out, my protective instincts running a lot deeper and a lot stronger than my self preservation ones.   
The agent keeps coming, and I ready myself to put him to the wall, thankfully, Peter intervenes.   
“Everyone calm down! The suspect isn’t going anywhere.” Peter says, catching the other agent by the shoulder before he reaches me.   
“This is obstruction of justice, you insolent fuck! I’ll have you locked back up for this stunt.” the agent shouts, grabbing the attention of the few agents still in the bullpen during the lunch break.   
“What did you do to him?” I ask, my voice a dark growl, my eyes slitted, as I process how my brother looked when he threw himself out of the elevator. Tension was sitting high on his shoulders, his jaw clenched, hands cuffed behind his back, anxiety clouding his normally stoic features, and blood trickling from a cut on his hairline.   
“What did you just say to me?” the agent asks, outrage clear in his voice.  
My already thin patience snaps, and I move quicker than anyone can process, sliding the man’s arm behind his back and spinning him around so that his chest and face slam into the wall behind him.   
“I asked. What. The. Fuck. You. Did. To. Him.” I grind out, trying very hard not to simply wrench his arm out of its socket.  
I’m focussed so intently on the task at hand, and not breaking anything on this agent, that I don’t notice the commotion happening behind me. That is, until two arms band around me, trapping my arms against my chest, and rendering them useless, although I suppose that was the point. It takes me about point 2 seconds to recognise who’s holding me, and although that allows me not to fight back, it does nothing for the rage pulsing beneath my skin, the violence just begging to be released.   
“Mal? Come on Mal, listen to me. I’m fine. I was pissed cause’ he put me in the elevator. I’m claustrophobic, remember? The blood is because I was working underneath my car when the cops showed up, I banged it into the undercarriage. They didn’t touch me Mal, I swear.” He says, his chin hooked over my shoulder as he tries to calm me down.   
“Pinky promise?” I rasp out, my breathing ragged.   
He chuckles, the sound more from relief than finding anything funny. “Yes, Mal, I pinky promise.” he says, releasing one of my arms so that I can lock fingers with him.   
“Who uncuffed you?” I ask then, noticing that he hasn’t let me go yet, and it’s definitely because he can still feel the tension in my posture, hear it in my voice, and he doesn’t quite trust me not to do anything impulsive at this moment.   
“I did it myself. Your agent friend was gonna try to grab you, but we both know that would have ended badly. You would have been wracked with guilt, he would have been bleeding, your deal would have been jeopardised, I would have had to bust you out of jail.” he says, rambling on in a half joking manner. Because the two of us know that’s the truth, but he doesn’t want the other agents in the room knowing that.   
“How’d you get to me before Peter?” I ask then, trying to keep him talking long enough to convince my rabid fucking protective instincts to calm the fuck down.   
“I already had the cuffs unlocked by the time I was out of the elevator, and I was closer to you than he was. I’m sure he would have fought me about it, but the asshole agent sorta lunged at us when I pulled you off, so Peter’s holding onto him right now.” he tells me, leaving out the part where if I just looked up instead of at my shoes I could see for myself what’s going on.   
“You gonna be alright if I let you go, Mal?” Jason asks when I don’t respond after a few moments.   
“Gimme a minute” I mutter, knowing how volatile my own emotions can be, leading to erratic actions and regrettable decisions.   
“Why are you calling him Mal?” I hear Diana ask from a few feet away, her voice cautious.   
“Uh, it’s a nickname? Short for his real name?” Jason says, answering her question with a healthy dose of incredulity.   
“What’s his real name?” She asks.  
“Malachi” he answers, and I can feel their stares burning into me, more intensely than before.  
“Well damn, why don’t we go all out then, huh? My name is Malachi Riot Todd, this is my baby brother, Jason Peter Todd. Yes, It’s my real name. Yes, my parents were high when they named me. He’s a minor, and I would appreciate it if someone would contact his legal guardian, seeing as you are sort of legally subjected to do so.” I tell them, sighing deeply as Jason finally loosens his hold on me, trusting me not to do anything rash.   
“Why don’t we take this up to the conference room, yeah?” Peter says, whispering something to the fuckhead agent before sending him on his way. “Jones, track down Mr. Todd’s legal guardian, bring me his number when you get it.” Peter says, but I stop him.   
“I’ve got his number” I tell him, pulling my cracked phone out of my pocket and dialing the number up.   
“Malachi?” Bruce asks, concern laying dormant beneath his carefree facade.   
“Jason got arrested. White Collar offices, New York.” I tell him.   
“I’ll be there within the hour.” he says, hanging up.   
“He’ll be here within the hour.” I tell them, ignoring the stink eye that Jason is sending my way.   
“He’s your father, or at least, as close to one as you’ll ever get. Don’t be a bitch about this.” I tell him, cocking a brow when it looks like he’s gonna throw attitude back at me.   
“Actually, the closest thing to a father i’ll be getting is your over protective, shit crazy, fucking self.” he says, grinning over at me.   
“I’m sorry, not to correct you or anything, but i’m not shit crazy” I tell him, narrowing my eyes at him.   
“I’m pretty sure anyone you’ve ever fought would disagree,” Jason says, a smile on his face as he teases me.   
“I don’t get it. I didn’t do anything special except win.” I say, tossing a glance back at my team, who are a few steps down from me and Jason.   
“Yeah, well. They didn’t call you Crazy Kai for nothing. I don’t think you ever looked in the mirror after a match, but you looked like a fucking serial killer.” Jason says, and I frown. “Disagree” I tell him, thinking back to my cage fighting days, back when I was in Gotham.   
“You wanna tell me why you were so hyped up earlier?” Jason asks, slipping into Akkadian, a dead language that the two of us warped into our own.   
“Mom called about a half hour ago. She’s locked up. Wanted me to bail her out. I haven’t talked to the fucking woman in ten years. And the first thing she said to me was that I was a disappointment, that it’s no wonder I turned out with no manners, and that she should have aborted me because I’m a waste of space. And then asked me to bail her out.” I tell him, knowing that trying to protect him from our mother's vitriol is a moot point, he lived with her until he was thirteen. He knows all the fucked up things she’s ever called me, all the things she’s done to me, and the things she’s allowed to happen to me.   
“Fuck!” he spits out, startling my team. I’m used to outbursts such as these, so I just dip my head in acknowledgement.   
“It’s fucked up, Mal. The things she’s done to you, the things she’s let people do to you … and all for something that wasn’t even your fault. I mean, fuck, you were in the hospital for two months after she wouldn’t let you in. I thought you were dead when I saw you lying in the street. I swear to god, she used to take shit from her fuckhead boyfriends and tell them it was you, just to watch you bleed. She’s so fucked in the head it isn’t even funny.” Jason spits out, a deep seated hatred burning in his words that only comes out when he’s talking about our mother, or the Joker.   
“She’s got reason to hate me. Good reason.” I tell him.   
“BULLSHIT!” he yells, snagging my arm and twisting me around to face him. “It is not your fucking fault that Saskia’s dead. Tell me Malachi, if I had done what you did, and you had done what Saskia had done that night, would you want me to blame myself for it for the rest of my life?” he tells me, and I sigh, pushing down the frustrated scream that wants to tear it’s way out of my throat.   
“If I hadn’t snuck out that night, she wouldn’t have followed me. And if she hadn’t followed me, she would have been sleeping peacefully in the apartment, not intervening in a well fucking deserved beating and getting herself killed! She would have been there to take care of you, and you can bet your ass she would have done a better job than I did. Mom wouldn’t have always been such a mess. It is my fault that Saskia’s dead, and while Mom might not have given a shit about me before Saskia was killed, she fucking hated me afterwards, she loved Saskia. I’m the reason her only daughter was killed, I’m the fuck up.” I spit out, knowing the words to be true, no matter how much my brother has always tried to convince me otherwise.   
“Fine. Fucking forget trying to convince you that it wasn’t your fault, you’ll never listen to me anyway. How about we take a trip back in time? Huh? How about we go back to when you got sent to Juvie for assaulting a cop that tried to fucking molest me, and Mom fucking moved while you were locked up. Remember that? You were fucking homeless for two years while you tried to track me down. You were twelve Mal. How about the time she let her boyfriend fucking whip you until your back was more blood than skin, remember that? You went into shock and I had to track down Matty to get his sister to check that you weren’t gonna fucking die. How about the time she stole her boyfriends wallet, blamed it on you, and let him fucking carve thief into your stomach. You still have the scars to prove how fucked in the head she was. Fucking regardless of what you did, even if you had beat Saskia to death yourself, you didn’t deserve that. Any of it. Oh! And let’s not forget the fact that you were fucking eleven when she was killed. She fucked you up Mal, real fuckin bad. Making you think any of that shit was deserved.” he mutters, his fists wound into the lapels of my jacket from when he had apparently tried to shake some sense into me halfway through his rant.   
“I’m not gonna argue that she’s a piece of shit. I won’t argue that she was a shitty mother, or that what she did to me when I was a kid was justified, but she did have a good reason to hate me.” I tell him, gently pulling his hands from my jacket and pulling my much larger baby brother into a hug.   
“Besides, not all of my scars are from her.” I mutter, pulling away from the hug and turning back towards the conference room, which we have yet to enter, becoming tied up in a new subject every few feet.   
“Oh yeah, I forgot, the other half of your scars are from illegal cage fighting so you could pay the bills, and buy groceries and clothes for me. Because that’s so much better. Totally.” he says, sarcasm wound thickly through his words.   
“Definitely” I respond, letting a small smile slip through my mask.   
We finally make it into the conference room, and I finally gain enough confidence to turn and look Peter in the eye, and what I find there makes me just a little bit angry.   
“Don’t pity me Peter. I don’t want your pity, or anyone else’s. My life was what it was, I'm not that person anymore. I’m still Neal Caffrey, just with a brother and a shitty childhood. I’m willing to answer some of your questions, just, don’t pity me.” I tell him, slumping into a chair, kicking out the one next to me for Jason, who slides into it, kicking his foot into mine in a show of support.   
“Okay. From what I gathered from that, conversation. You used to have an older sister, Jason here is your younger brother, your mother is a horrible person. You used to cage fight for money, you’ve been to juvie, you were homeless for two years, your real name is Malachi Riot Todd, and your real age is?” he asks, and I smile, happy he’s decided to go for an easy first question.   
“Twenty four” I tell him, knowing that that knocks almost ten years off of how old he thought I was.   
“Fucking shit, Neal. That means you were only, what? Nineteen when I first arrested you? Sixteen when I first started chasing you down?” Peter says, looking a little green.   
“Roundabouts” I answer, knowing that he’s in the right range.   
“Why? Who let a sixteen year old run off on his own?” Peter asks then, and I shrug.   
“Nobody did or didn’t let me. You really think anyone cared, Peter? I was homeless for two years, in Juvie for about six total. I was constantly in fights, in Juvie, at school, foster and group homes, the fucking street corner, a few bars and clubs. I popped in and out of foster and group homes my whole life, in between getting tossed back with my mother. It took three rounds of running away from my foster home and tracking Jay down before they realised that it was easier to keep us together. The system was a whole lot happier when I disappeared. I was that kid. The fuck up who didn’t care who exactly he inconvenienced as long as he got what he wanted. And the only thing I wanted was to keep my brother safe.” I tell him, remembering how Bruce was the first person to realise that he couldn’t tie me down, not if I didn’t want to be. He was the first person to realise that it was easier to let me go, under the condition that I would always keep in contact with him and Jay, than to try to keep me there against my will.   
“I’m sorry, I’m still trying to figure out this timeline. Can you please clarify that, Neal?” Diana asks, and I nod.   
“My sister was killed when I was eleven, I went to Juvie for assaulting a police officer when I was twelve, I was supposed to do three years, but ended up getting released two years early because of overcrowding issues, it was about a month after my thirteenth birthday. My mother had disappeared and I spent the next two years bouncing back and forth across South Gotham trying to find Jason. When I did locate him, he was in the process of becoming a ward to a billionaire. I then did my research on the guy, checked him out, spent a few months in Gotham checking in on Jason every day, getting a feel for the guy and his other kid.   
“Then some shit from my past showed up and I fled to New York. That’s where I met Mozzie. He taught me everything he knew, building off of everything that I already knew about being a thief, which was quite a bit for being a self starter.” I laugh, though the sound is hollow and lacking the necessary amusement to make it believable. “Anyway, by the time I was about sixteen and a half I had Peter on my trail. The next three years were a game of cat and mouse, which you all know about. Then I was arrested, spent four years locked up, made a deal with you about a year and a half ago, and here we are.” I answer, making sure to meet Peter’s eyes, hoping he sees that I’m not lying.   
“And where does Kate fit into this?” Jones asks, catching the fact that I left her out of my timeline.  
“Kate?” Jason asks.   
“Eclipse” I answer, resigning myself to the fact that I’ll be telling them about our history. “Kate doesn’t exist, her real name is Eclipse Moonlight Anderson. Just about as bad as mine. Which is what actually made me first approach her. We met in the first grade. I caught a few kids making fun of her for her name, and I beat them up. I was put in detention, but I remember not really giving a shit at the time, because when she looked at me, she wasn’t scared, she wasn’t angry, she wasn’t disgusted, which, keep in mind, had all been reactions I'd gotten before for defending someone being bullied. No, not Lips, she fucking giggled. She giggled, she thanked me, and then she hugged me, as if I hadn’t just put four kids into the nurse’s office for the rest of the day. The next day, when I got on the bus, she had saved a seat for me and Saskia.   
“We were best friends from that day forward. She was there for me when Saskia was killed, she was the one who distracted Saskia with a sleepover for my first fight when I was nine. She was the one who got real fucking good at stitches when she realised that I wasn’t gonna stop. She was always there. We started dating just before Saskia was killed, and she was the first person I went to when I realised that my mother had up and took off with Jay in tow. She helped me find him, helped keep me out of trouble. We lost touch when I fled Gotham at sixteen, she stopped answering my calls, Jay couldn’t find her, and his guardian ended up sending out a whole fucking search party. She had disappeared.   
“So you can’t even imagine the relief I felt when I ran into her on a con of all things. We basically picked up where we had left off a year and a half prior. Now, my guess is that something happened in those two years that had her leave me when she did, because she never would tell me how she ended up where she was, why she had fallen off the face of the planet when she did. And I let it go, because she had let so many things go when we were kids, she was there for me when I was an asshole, when I was in the hospital, and she visited me when I was in Juvie. She is my best friend. And I fucking refuse to belive that she would just, leave like that, of her own volition. Not to mention the fact that the way she left was so unlike her, it isn’t even funny. If she had just been done with my shit, she would have cursed me out, packed her shit, and walked. For her to have left the way that she did, with a fucking wine bottle, no less, she was scared. Hell, she doesn’t even like wine! Neither do I, really. She likes Vodka and I like Whiskey.  
“My point, I guess, is that me and Lips had a much longer and more complicated history than I ever let on. You believed that my girlfriend had just up and left me. I let you believe that I was a romantic. I’m not, not really.” I tell them, walking them through my thought process on my other half. Why she would have bailed like she did. It doesn’t make sense.   
“So that night that you were sitting there, staring at the bottle?” Peter asks.   
“I was, fucking scared. I wasn’t heartbroken because she had left. I was terrified that something had happened to her.” I tell him, remembering the way my heart had raced in my chest, pumping pure terror through my body and locking my muscles into place.   
There’s a long silence, where Peter just stares at me, before finally nodding.   
“Who exactly is meeting us here?” Peter asks next.   
“Bruce Wayne. The Prince of Gotham, and a word to the wise, before he gets here, he isn’t half as fucking stupid as he would have you believe. Keep that in mind.” I tell him, recalling how I’ve literally never gotten a lie past the man, and he somehow always knows when I’ve taken something from him, whether it’s from his house, or off of him directly. Granted, he is the Batman, and I never learned to con someone as skilled as him. I can con any one of his children though, including Jason.   
“We don’t really get along, so I would keep that in mind as well.” I tell him.   
“Please tell me it isn’t because he was one of your marks?” Peter asks, lightening the mood, even if only for a few moments.   
“No. He was Jason’s guardian before I ever tried to steal anything from him. Besides, he knows about everything I’ve ever stolen from him, and, I put mostly everything back after I took it. No, we don’t like each other because I left my baby brother in his hands under the assumption that he would be safe, and while it wasn’t Bruce’s fault that certain things happened to Jason, I still hold him responsible, seeing as he was, you know, fucking responsible for him. I let him know my opinion, and we had more than a few very heated arguments on the subject. Our relationship has been, tense, to say the least, since all of that happened.” I tell them, knowing that I'm not really revealing anything with that statement.   
“That was vague” Diana mutters, accompanied by Jones’s “like always”   
“We were under the impression that you couldn’t fight, Neal. Non-violent felon was a huge part of our deal coming to fruition.” Peter says.   
“I am a non-violent felon. It’s actually a huge part of the rush. Pulling off a heist weapon free, trying to talk my way out of something that I would usually fight my way out of. That isn’t to say that that part of my past was easy to get rid of, or that I did, exactly.” I say.   
“What is that supposed to mean?” Peter asks.   
“It means that I’ve found some people with the same sort of issues, who also use fighting as a way to release their rage. It’s all legal, we meet at one of the guy’s MMA gyms after hours.” I tell them, leaving out the part about it being a bare knuckles, fight till someone goes down, sort of club.   
“Fucking hell” Peter mutters, looking like i’m shattering his world view with every word uttered from my mouth. 

The next half hour is spent differentiating Neal traits from Malachi traits, and as they find out, a lot of my more annoying traits are made up, stuff I decided Neal Caffrey would do, and that there are a lot of things that Neal would never be able to do, that Malachi can’t live without. By the time that Bruce shows up, I think I’ve broken my friends.   
“I was under the impression that my son was being arrested, not sitting in a conference room next to his brother, laughing.” Bruce says, his voice flat as he strides into the room, startling the laughter from everyone’s expressions.   
“I was in fact, being arrested, but Mal here decided to have a little overprotective moment, and pinned the agent arresting me to the wall. Now the feds know that his name isn’t really Neal Caffrey, as well as the overview of his childhood and how he came to be the con artist he is today. Good times.” Jason says, a genuine smile on his face as he looks over at Bruce.   
“Agent Peter Burke” Peter says as he stands to shake Bruce’s hand.   
“Bruce Wayne” he says as their hands clasp together.   
He then shakes both Diana and Jones’s hands before turning his attention our way.   
“You know I actually had things to do today.” he says, cocking a brow.  
“But nothing more important than bailing your favorite son out of a bad situation?” Jason asks in a saccharine sweet voice, tilting his head to the side and shooting out an equally sweet smile, mocking his father.   
“I might believe you if you weren’t sitting next to Mal.” Bruce says, and I frown.   
“Don’t give me that look, you know that’s not what I meant.” Bruce says, his eyes immediately locking onto my expression.   
“What did you mean then?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t approve of my thieving ways.  
“I meant that had he been arrested by himself, I would have worried. The fact that he thinks I need to be bailing him out of any situation when you’re next to him is fucking ludicrous. You would die before letting anything bad happen to him. You are the most overprotective person I’ve ever met in my life.” Bruce says, his voice the same even tone it was when he came in.   
“Oh” I murmur, having completely misread him. Again.   
“Now, unless you are charging my son with something, we will be leaving, Mal will be coming with us. He’ll be at work tomorrow. We’ve got some things that need to be discussed in the meantime.” Bruce says, obviously shocking Peter.   
“We aren’t charging Jason with anything, but Neal will be staying.” Peter says, apparently not liking having his authority challenged.   
“Malachi will be coming with us. I will have him dropped off in front of this building tomorrow morning at eight sharp. We have some long overdue issues that need to be worked through, and I have things that need tending to in Gotham. Goodbye.” Bruce says, nodding his head towards us, then the door, his command clear.   
“Please, Peter. I promise we’ll finish this conversation tomorrow.” I ask, already standing and gathering my things.   
A few beats pass in silence before he speaks up again, having made up his mind.   
“Eight sharp. Elizabeth will be wanting to speak to you as well.” he says, giving his consent for me to leave with Jay and Bruce.   
“Thank you Peter.” I tell him, a genuine smile tipping my lips as my brother tosses his arm around my shoulders, steering me out the door to where Bruce is waiting at the elevators.   
“Damn Mal, that was a trip.” he mutters as we walk across the bullpen.   
“I think everything’ll be alright.” I answer, shrugging as we approach Bruce.   
“Me too” he answers, smiling down at me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? good? bad? meh? lemme know what you think. :)


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